Page 16 of How to Lose a Pack in 10 Dates

The door swings open before I even knock, and suddenly I’m face-to-face with Cameron Richardson for the first time in four and a half years.

And—oh. Oh no.

He hasn’t changed, and yet somehow looks just like every alpha I’ve ever blocked, unfollowed, and then quietly re-followed at 2 a.m all at once. His hair’s longer than I remember it being, sun-kissed and floppy and devastatingly touchable, and his amber eyes do this wide, stunned blink as if he wasn’t entirely sure I’d actually show.

“Aimee?” he says.

I clear my throat. “Hi.”

“Hey!” he beams. “I… wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Honestly? Me neither,” I admit, half-laughing. “There was a moment outside where I almost left and joined a convent.”

Cam’s twenty-three, technically one school year below Wes and I. In my mind, he was always the grinning boy who helped me carry a bookshelf into my third-floor apartment and then tripped over his own feet trying to flirt; but now he’s six-foot-one, broad as hell, and wearing a pair of gray joggers and a fitted black tee that is doing unspeakable things to his arms.

“Come in,” he beams as he steps aside and gestures behind him. “We made muffins.”

Of course they did. Alphas baking is apparently my new religion.

I step inside, and instantly, I’m wrapped inpack. I keep my expression neutral and pretend I’m not being choked by the overwhelming scent of three bonded alphas who smell like sugar and dominance and danger all at once.

And then I meet Jace.

He’s draped across the corner of the oversized sectional, clearly aware of his own impact. His short-sleeved button-down is more suggestion than shirt, clinging for dear life to ridiculously muscular biceps. It’s unbuttoned all the way down, revealing abs so sharply defined they could legitimately be used to tenderize meat. His light brown curls are almost artfully tousled, and his lips twitch the second our eyes meet, as if they're in on the joke.

“Hey,” he says, with a voice that does something highly illegal to my insides. “So you’re the infamous Aimee.”

His smirk is pure sin: confident, slow-moving, and so practiced it should be criminal.

“Oh,” I say faintly. “You have... abs.”

Cam chokes on a laugh, but Jace just grins wider and lazily gestures down his body—likeyes, this is the main attraction, andyes, it’s always this good.

“I also own a gym brand,” he says, voice dropping half an octave. “You might’ve seen it online.”

Oh, I’ve seen it. I’ve seenhim. All over my feed, all overeveryone’sfeed—shirtless kettlebell swings, dripping sweat, mouth slightly parted while omegas lose brain cells in the comments.

“I’ve seen your... work,” I manage, voice thinner than dignity should allow.

After all, seeing him in person is like discovering your vibrator's been severely underperforming.

Unfortunately, that’s the exact moment Wes appears in the doorway, radiating disapproval. I ignore the traitorous flip inmy stomach at the sight of him. He might be emotionally unavailable and morally questionable, but he’s still stupidly hot, even if heislooking at me like I’m a biohazard.

“You’re late,” he says.

“Hi, Wes,” I say sweetly. “Still controlling? That’s cute.”

Cam clears his throat, clearly panicked. “Did I mention we made muffins?”

“Twice,” Jace adds, his voice like honey. “First batch was too moist. I couldn’t stop testing it.”

I blink, my brain malfunctioning as I process his words.

“I’ve never heard that sentence… in a sentence.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Cam says.

“You will,” Jace echoes, flashing a grin. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers, then trails slowly down the line of my throat. I get the impression that he’s thinking about tasting something other than muffins. “Want to try this batch?”

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